WAIFS – Worn-out Assassin Is Flooded by Superheroes
by Ebenbild
Summary: "Duck!" Clint has always had troubles with strays. But since when did STRAYS mean 'Sick Troubled Ragged Afflicted Yipping Superheroes? ! Before the first Avenger Movie; x-over with different Marvel characters; Doc!Clint; Deaf!Clint; Ronin!Clint; Hawkeye!Clint; How Clint came to SHIELD/ How Clint met Coulson; slow beginning and neighbours;
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer**_ _: Sadly all Marvel's and not mine. If I had done the movies, Clint would have been the star from the start._

 _ **Placing:**_ _Before the movies._

 _ **Warning:**_ _I have no idea about the comic's, and just know some tit-bits from gossip and wikipedia, so this is mainly based on the first Avenger's movie._

 _Just an idea I had, nothing more._

 _If you have some suggestions who Clint can meet, tell me, I'll see what I can do._

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sSsSsSsSs

 _ **Prologue**_

 _ **LEARNING HOW TO DUCK –**_

 _ **AND GETTING STUCK WHILE DOING IT**_

sSs

"Duck!"

Clint's reaction at that exclamation was not the usual. Instead of heading for cover, he groaned annoyed.

"Aw, no, duck!" He moaned. "No duck, please!"

There, in the middle of his new apartment's living room, was quacking a duck. One of its wings was definitely broken and it hopped around clearly agitated.

"I'm sorry, Mr. B. I will immediately call someone to remove it," The old man, Clint's landlord, said in that moment after his first agitated reaction of "duck!" had passed, while opening the door to the apartment fully.

Clint slowly entered his new flat, ignoring the duck in his living room for a moment to look around. It was a small flat with three small rooms. The white paint was pealing from the walls and the flat itself was a little dirty, but it was Clint's – and that was the most important thing.

Of course, that didn't change the fact that there was a _duck_ sitting in his living room. How the hell did a duck get in there anyway?

Clint groaned again and cursed his luck, before sighing and forcing himself to act somewhat professional.

"Don't worry about the duck, Mr. Grills," Clint said. "I will take care of it myself."

It wouldn't be the first time, after all. Since Clint had been a small child, strays seemed to magically find him everywhere he lived. He had found hurt birds wherever he went. Sometimes a hurt fox, badger or rabbit joined him for healing. Clint had long ago learned how to treat various injuries – from broken bones to stitches and troublesome births. Whatever could happen – Clint had at least experienced it once.

In the circus he had found hurt birds, cats and dogs. On his different assassin jobs all over the world he had found the same. In the military he had stumbled upon various animals wherever he went – and now, when he was finally back for good he had a duck in the living room…

"There goes my hope to leave that behind as well," Clint thought while taking the keys from the landlord before letting the old man out. "And I thought that living in a city would spare me from strays."

Maybe, if Clint would have known the future, he would have given back his keys and fled into Sahara desert – but since he didn't know, he would have no way to escape his immediate future…

And so he took the keys and let the old man out.

"Ah! I just remembered," the old landlord said when Clint was already closing the door. Clint hesitated.

"The house occupants are barbequing on the roof every first Sunday of the month," the landlord said. "You're welcome to join, whenever you want."

Clint blinked at that. He had had no proper interaction with other people since he left the army two years ago.

In the end, he inclined his head.

"I will think about it," he said, and the old man nodded satisfied and left.

Clint closed the door and turned to the duck.

"Now to you."

After that, it was routine.

Capturing the duck, sedating it before looking it over, setting the bone and ensuring that it would stay in the right position until it had healed…

It was a routine Clint had done for years, since long before being brought to the orphanage at age six. Even when he himself had been hurt because of one of his father's beatings, Clint had healed the creatures he found and hid in his room. Hell, even when he was in the middle of the war, Clint had healed the hurt animals that found their way near him. Clint had long since given up on fighting his constant luck of finding hurt animals.

After he had treated the duck, he again looked around his flat. Except of the old looking, a little run-down kitchen, it was empty. He would need at least a couch or something to sleep on for tonight.

His eyes returned to the sedated duck. It would be out another two hours, he guessed. That should be enough to find a cheap couch or bed for his flat.

So Clint sat down his two duffle bags and his rucksack – everything he owned, including his weapons – in his future bedroom and then went out to find some furniture.

He found a simple bed and a comfortable mattress in one of the stores he looked and bought both, as well as a pillow and a duvet and some sheets in black and purple. After that he bought some juice, coffee, a coffee machine and some necessary kitchen ware as well as some groceries for dinner. He transported everything home in his old range rover and then started to bring it upstairs to his flat on the uppermost floor.

He was just about to bring up the mattress when two men entered the building.

"Hey there!" one of them greeted him. "I guess you're the new guy from 22C? I'm Evan, your neighbour from 22B and that's my brother Adam."

Clint took the offered hand of Evan.

"Clint," he said.

"You're about to bring up your stuff?" Evan asked, and when Clint nodded, Evan gestured to himself and Adam. "Let us help you."

Clint hesitated just a second before he took the offer. He didn't like someone entering his place, but even he knew that bringing up his stuff alone – especially the mattress – would be a hassle.

In the end, with the help of Evan and Adam, it took less time than Clint had anticipated and soon his mattress, the bedding and the still apart bed were standing in Clint's living room. Clint went into his kitchen to check on the duck and while Evan and Adam looked interested at the empty room that would one day be Clint's living room.

"You're still missing a lot of furniture," Evan commented dryly when Clint returned with a juice for each of his helpers.

Clint shrugged and held out the drinks inwardly unsure if he should be happy that he bought some glasses or unhappy that he bought some. If he hadn't bought them, he could have gotten rid of them faster, but he also would have been pecked as unsociable and Clint wasn't sure if he wouldn't need some help from his neighbours one day…

"Don't have anything else," he excused. "It's this or coffee."

The guys waved it off and took the juice.

"Nah, it's fine," Evan said amused. "Like that I can at least tell the girls I had something healthy today!"

Clint rolled his eyes.

"Healthy, sure, man," he said amused. "That's if you disregard all that sugar in there…"

Evan snickered.

"I never said I'd tell the girls what 'healthy thing' I inserted," he countered amused.

Clint's lips twitched.

"But come on, tell," Adam spoke up in that moment. "What's up with the missing furniture?"

"I will have to buy it first," Clint replied, still a bit amused. "I thought that buying a bed would be the direst at the moment."

Evan laughed at that.

"Obviously," he said. "Just knock if you need some help bringing the rest up. The girls won't mind to help and if I'm in I can help you with the heavier stuff."

"The girls?" Clint asked, now hearing – well, actually lip-reading – those word the second time.

"We share flat," Evan said. "Ginny has just started her new job, I'm a college student and Clara goes to nursery school so neither of us has enough money for a flat by ourselves yet. There's a fourth living with us who just finished schooling, but he's currently home with his parents. It was practical to share flat - and the one we have is a lot bigger than yours, so we don't mind."

Clint nodded at that. Even with the money he had from his army days, he would have not enough money to maintain a flat in the middle of New York if he wouldn't freelance as an assassin.

"What are you doing?" Adam asked in that moment. "College as well?"

Clint shrugged.

"I'm just returning from a longer stay in the hospital. I'm not sure yet what I will do, maybe college, maybe a job, I'll see." It wasn't even a complete lie if you ignored the one and a half years he had worked as a freelance marksman. He had been in a hospital for about half a year, regaining his agility after the injuries he had maintained thanks to a bomb.

Not, that Clint ever planed on going to college. He might have sat his middle school exams early – or in time, if you went with his official age – yep, to Clint's utter regret there was a five years difference between his actual and his official age (bloody big brother and his wish for money!) – but he had never gone to high school. He was simply far too active to sit down and learn boring stuff like history, so he had disregarded high school long ago already.

Adam and Evan exchanged an uneasy glance and Clint suppressed an eye-roll.

 _Bloody nosy and concerned neighbours and their misconceptions!_

"I'm alright again," he said, before adding a fake-explanation. He had no intention to connect his army identity with the new one he had constructed just a few days ago. "Car accident. Wasn't too great, but can happen to everyone."

Except that normally normal people didn't have a car thrown at them as a 'car accident' thanks to a hidden bomb, but, oh well…

Evan nodded slowly.

He looked a bit hesitant, but there was no disbelief in neither Adam's nor his own eyes so Clint took it as a success.

"Anyway, if you need help, just knock," Evan said in that moment. "I'm quite sure that Mrs Brown from 22E and Evelyn Simmons from 22A would also help you if you need help – just don't ask 22D. That man is quite stuck-up. I think he's thinking that he's something better than us because he works in a bank, but I guess you will find out soon."

After another ten minutes of mindless chatter, they finally left Clint to build his bed.

Clint was just finishing, when his doorbell rang.

He sighed inwardly and then went to the door. A woman was standing outside, a little girl of about three or four on her right and a little boy of about one or two in her arms.

Her daughter held a plate.

Clint suppressed another sigh and opened the door to the smiling woman.

"Hello!" she greeted him enthusiastically. "I'm Evelyn Simmons from 22A and these are my children: Mercedes" – she indicated her oldest – "And Benjamin."

"Clint," Clint answered and the woman smiled.

"We just wanted to welcome you to the neighbourhood!" the woman said. "We've some mac and cheese since we thought you might have had no time to cook today. If you need anything, just knock on our door!"

"Thank you," Clint said, forcing himself to smile. That was the moment an elderly woman left 22E and – when she saw Evelyn and the children standing in front of his door – joined them. She had some muffins on a plate in a hand and smiled at him when she reached out a hand to him.

Clint shook it.

"I'm Elise Brown from 22E. Welcome to the neighbourhood!"

In the end, Clint had no choice but to beg both women and the children in and chat with them for about ten minutes. Clint was definitely grateful that he had only bought his bed today or he might have been forced to feed his neighbours as well. Like it was, he could usher them out of his rooms after ten minutes of mindless chatter.

Relived, he closed the door behind them.

"And here I thought that in New York, nobody would be interested in their neighbours," he grumbled. "Why does the house I move in, have to be the odd one out?"

And that was the moment, the duck finally woke.

 _What a great first day!_

oOo

"Sir," Nick Fury looked up from his paperwork.

"Cheese," he greeted the man at the door.

"I have some news, sir," Phil Coulson said, in his hands a folder.

"News?"

Phil put the folder down in front of Nick.

"There're new killings all over the States," he said.

Nick Fury pulled the folder towards him and opened it.

Slowly he looked through the papers in it with a small frown on his face.

"Do we know who is doing it?" He asked concerned.

"As far as we know, the assassin we call 'Hawkeye' is active again," Phil Coulson replied. "Too many of those have been killed by arrows or something else thrown from a greater distance."

Nick Fury sighed.

"Anything else about the cases?" He asked

At that Phil hesitated – unusual for him.

"Cheese?"

"There's evidence that there might be going on a lot more than we thought there is," he finally said.

"Care to explain?" Nick Fury asked.

Phil turned around the folder and opened it at a specific page. Then he turned it back towards his boss.

"Antonio Salvera," he said. "Officially a simple accountant. Killed on his way to work in broad daylight by a thrown knife in the back. No witnesses, no trace of his killer."

Nick Fury nodded and Phil continued.

"We found evidence that he was part of a smuggler ring," he said sighing. "He smuggled little children and sold them to brothels and private persons."

At that, Nick Fury grimaced.

"And that changes everything how?" He asked.

The answer was a sigh then Phil Coulson opened another page in the folder.

"John Avery," he said. "Shop keeper. Killed in the middle of the night by an arrow in his eye. No witnesses, no traces of the killer."

He paused, took a deep breath and continued.

"Evidence that he killed at least ten people," he added.

Nick Fury's eyebrow rose and Phil opened the next page.

"Hermann Engert," he said. "Teacher. Killed from behind with an arrow while jogging. No witnesses, no traces of the killer."

Nick looked at the laughing man in the picture, his frown deepened.

"We found pictures and evidence that he raped at least twenty girls between twelve and fifteen," Phil said.

Nick Fury's eyebrow rose even further.

"Are there more like that?" He asked interested.

Phil Coulson sighed.

"We're still doing research," he said. "But until now in every murder of 'Hawkeye' we took a deeper look at the victim, we found something fishy going on with them."

"So you're telling me –"

"That it seems that there's more going on than we thought until now," Phil ended the sentence. "Hawkeye isn't just a killer, sir. It seems he's some kind of avenger for those who had to suffer by the hands of his victims."

Nick Fury's eyes narrowed at that.

"Why did you come to me with that?" He asked suspiciously.

The answer was an innocent look on the normally bland face.

"I thought you should know, sir," Phil replied, his voice as innocent as his face.

Nick Fury snorted.

"Cheese," he said. "I know you for far too long to not understand that you want something from me…"

The answer was another innocent look.

"Don't look at me like that, Cheese!"

There was a sigh then his friend pulled out another sheet of paper and put it down in front of Nick.

"I want you to sign this," he said.

Nick Fury looked at the sheet.

It was a recruitment allowance.

"You want to recruit him," he said blankly.

Phil's face returned to its innocent look.

"You want to recruit him," Nick Fury repeated disbelievingly.

His friend looked at him with huge puppy dog eyes.

He groaned.

"Alright," he finally gave in. "Let's recruit an insane assassin. It's not as if we had something better to do."

He took out a pen and signed the form.

The answer was a nearly unseen grin on Phil Coulson's face.

"But you are the one to find him and bring him in!" Nick Fury admonished Phil. "Do you understand?"

The feral grin the normally stoic Phil Coulson sent him didn't give him any kind of relief.

"Of course, sir," his agent assured him, his eyes gleaming. "I wouldn't think of doing anything else."

Then Phil gathered his papers, turned and left the room.

Nick Fury buried his head in his hands.

He wondered how long it would take to have an insane assassin in SHIELD.

Oddly enough, in the end it wouldn't be Phil who recruited Hawkeye.

 _If Nick had known, he might have committed suicide the day he signed the recruitment papers._

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 _That_ _'s_ _it_ _for_ _to day_ _._ _Since_ _I_ _couldn't_ _get_ _rid_ _of_ _the_ _story_ _,_ _I_ _decided_ _to_ _write_ _it_ _down_ _._

' _Till_ _next_ _time_ _._

 _Ebenbild_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer**_ _: Sadly all Marvel's and not mine. If I had done the movies, Clint would have been the star from the start._

 _ **Placing:**_ _Before the movies._

 _ **Warning:**_ _I have no idea about the comic's, and just know some tit-bits from gossip and wikipedia, so this is mainly based on the first Avenger's movie._

 _Just an idea I had, nothing more._

xXxXxXxXxXxClintxXxXxXxStraysxXxXxXxXxStraysxXxXxXxXxClintxXxXxXxXxXxXx

sSsSsSsSs

 _ **Chapter 1**_

 _ **ASSASSIN**_ _ **S**_ _ **KNOW**_ _ **NO**_ _ **MERCY**_ _ **–**_

 _ **BUT**_ _ **MERCY**_ _ **KNOW**_ _ **S THE**_ _ **ASSASSIN**_

sSs

Clint was just coming back from a job, when he met the five year old Simmons from 22A again. It was about three and a half weeks after he had met the child the first time and he was quite tired.

The job, he had done, had not gone over without a hitch and he had gained some minor injuries while fleeing from his perch. Nobody had come near enough to truly spot him, but he had fallen from the second story of an old factory and had gained some strains and bruises when he rescued himself by gripping on a window sill.

Still, he had been hurt far worse, so he wasn't too concerned and nobody would be able to connect him with his victim – the factory had been far too far away for a normal archer to take a hit like Clint had.

Thankfully, Clint wasn't a normal archer. He wouldn't even have to flee if a concerned neighbour hadn't noticed the cut fence and thought that juveniles had entered the old building. He had called the police and Clint had to flee the scene to not be found with a bow in his hands.

In the end, Clint had gotten away, had driven home and parked his car. He had been on his way into the house when he saw some older boys of maybe eleven or twelve in an alley with a dead end shoving another child to the ground. Clint might have not even seen the incident, if it wasn't for his unusual sharp eyes – eyes that had gotten even sharper since the bombing incident and Clint's loss of hearing.

As it was, he could see every detail of not only the boys but their victim as well – and said victim was oddly familiar. It took just another second until Clint connected the silver-blond hair and scared face to Evelyn Simmons' oldest, five year old girl.

"Aw, no! Exactly what I need now," Clint groaned inwardly, but he went into the alley anyway.

"What do you think you are doing there?" he hissed – but only after he was basically behind the boys. The boys turned around, their eyes widening.

Clint's fast reflexes had the leader of the gang by the boy's elbow before the boy could even think about fleeing. Together with the leader he was now also blocking the escape route of the rest of the gang. The boys' eyes widened at the deadly cool eyes of the trained assassin in front of them – and unlike his normal, easy-going nature, Clint let the boys see the assassin, not the nice, young man he normally portrait.

"It doesn't seem quite fair – five strong boys like you against one little girl – don't you think so, too?" Clint asked coolly.

The boys' face paled at his tone of voice, their instincts clearly screaming at them that there was an even more dangerous predator than them on the loose. Clint made sure to stare at every one of them until he could smell them pee themselves.

He grinned evilly, then looked at his finger nails while letting go of the leader of the little gang, clearly now uninterested in them.

"If I ever see you harassing her again, I will skin you alive before I kill you and bury you somewhere no one will ever find you again," he promised them, still looking at his nails. Then his eyes snapped up to meet those of the five boys. "Do we understand each other?"

The boys nodded frantically and Clint finally stepped aside and let them pass.

They ran for their lives.

Clint instead turned to the little girl who looked at him with huge eyes. He crouched down in front of her, ignoring the stabbing pain in one of his ankles at that action.

"Hi, I'm not sure if you remember me. I'm Clint, I'm your neighbour," he introduced himself to the little girl, all the way praying that she wouldn't start crying. He had no idea what to do with crying little girls.

The girl looked at him for another second or two with confused, still huge eyes. When she didn't say a thing, Clint tried to remember her name. Maddy? No. Marcy? No. But it sounded somewhat similar…

"You're Mercy, aren't you?" he finally settled on. It at least sounded about right.

"Mercedes," the girl corrected him while biting her lip.

"Ah, yeah, sorry," Clint said, sending her an embarrassed grin. "I knew I wasn't absolutely right." If it had been Mercy, he would at least have had not too much problems remembering it…

"It's Spanish, isn't it?" he mused, but the girl said nothing, so Clint settled onto the next issue. "Are you hurt, Mercedes?"

And, as if the question was a floodgate, she started to tear up, while she nodded.

"Aw no! No crying! No crying, please! No crying!" Clint begged inwardly.

Too late.

She started to snivel and then to cry. Big, fat tears started to roll down her cheeks and Clint sat in front of her, unsure what to do – his face showing his absolute desperation.

"Fu… er… shi… aw, no! No swearing in front of little girls!" He reminded himself before settling on something he actually could say. "Where are you hurt, Mercy?" he finally asked, not sure if he was shortening her name or begging her for mercy.

She held out her hands for him and he could see the scraps that littered both elbows and hands.

"Er… oh… alright," he said, still unsure what to do. "You know what? I take you up to your mother and she'll help you, alright?" he asked, but the girl cried only harder.

"Mommy is working and daddy or Ginny didn't come to school to take me home," she cried, and it took another moment to remember that Ginny was living with Evan in 22B.

"Er… then how about I take you up and… and heal you myself?" Clint finally settled on, not sure if Ginny was home to take the child off his hands.

The girl snivelled another second or two, but then she nodded and held out her arms. For a moment, Clint didn't know what to do with those hands stretched out to him, then he understood her intention.

"Carrying her. Aw, no! She wants to be carried!" he groaned inwardly, but nevertheless picked her up. His bruised side and slightly twisted ankle protested, but he ignored it and settled the child on his hips before also picking up her school bag.

The girl buried her head in the crook of his neck and started to sob again.

Clint hesitated for a moment, before patting her on the back.

"Don't worry, Mercy," he said. "I'll patch you up. I'm really good at it, I promise!"

The girl looked at him sceptically at that, her eyes still full of tears.

"Daddy is horrible at making it better," she said, sniffing.

"Ah... yes," Clint said awkwardly. "But I've experience. I promise, I can patch you up really good!"

"So you're a doctor?" the girl asked while rubbing her eyes.

 _Fuck! What were those damn rules about little girls again? No swearing, got it covered… was there a 'no lying' part in there somewhere?_

In the end Clint decided that he was far too untrained in normal interactions and went with the first answer that came to mind.

"Something like that, Mercy, something like that." That at least seemed to reassure her enough to bury her head in his neck again, still crying.

Clint instead awkwardly made his way back to his flat.

Over the last weeks Clint's flat had started to become homier and he had added an old table and chairs, as well as a couch and some other furniture. His laptop was lying on the coffee table in his living room, but he ignored it since he wouldn't let the little girl out of his vision which meant that there was no way for her to see his research on the last area he had killed in, instead he went into the kitchen and sat the little girl onto his table before opening one of the cupboards to take out bandages and plasters.

"Now, let's see," he said, before wetting a towel and then starting to carefully clean the scraps of the little girl. The girl was still snivelling softly, but her red eyes were at least nearly dry again and she didn't look as if she would start to bawl again within the next minutes.

After cleaning the wounds, Clint bandaged them expertly.

"Look, as good as new!" he said, hesitatingly smiling at the girl. She just started back at him, still sniffing and Clint feared that she would start to cry in the next second again. She definitely looked like she would.

"Er… how about… decorating them a bit?" Clint finally settled on, remembering his days in the circus. He returned to one of his cupboards and pulled out some small containers of paint. Normally he used them to camouflage himself, so most of them were earthly colours, but desperate times…

He took one of the containers and opened it. It was his favourite – not that he used it that often – purple. With experienced movements he watered a brush and then drew it through the colour. As long as the paint wouldn't get wet again, it would stay the moment it had dried. Maybe not perfect, but the best he could do in a moment's notice. Then he started to paint an archer on one of the bandages, switching colours while he went.

When he looked up from his work, he saw that Mercedes was watching him wide-eyed and awed, tears forgotten.

He grinned at her, now definitely grateful for his time at the circus. He doubted that his drawings would have been any good if he hadn't had the practice of painting his own face and other body parts with different drawings for the show.

"Can you paint a clown?" Mercedes asked him awed in that moment, and Clint relaxed.

"Sure thing," he said grinning.

In the end, Mercedes' bandages were multi-coloured paintings of various circus attractions, and the little girl's eyes were shining brightly.

"And now, Mercy, let's go looking for Ginny or your mother," Clint said. "We don't want to worry them, do we?"

Mercedes shook her head, and Clint picked her up after ensuring that the paint was dry and settled her on his hip again.

He first went to Evelyn Simmons' flat, but when nobody opened, he went to 22B, the home of Evan and Ginny.

He knocked and not even a second later Evan opened the door.

Evan's eyebrows rose when he saw Clint with the child in his arms.

"Clint!" he said. "Why do you have Mercedes?"

Clint ruffled his hair nervously.

"I found her outside," he said. "It seems as if she wasn't taken home from school by someone and decided to walk by herself. Mrs. Simmons isn't home. She said that Ginny's sometimes watching her?"

"Ah, yes," Evan said. "Ginny's actually watching Benjamin right now. Mercedes should have been picked up by her father today."

"Well, she obviously wasn't," Clint said. "She had a run in with some rude boys on the way home, so I patched her up first. Is Ginny home?"

Evan just shook his head.

"She's gone to the park with Benjamin about half an hour ago. She should be home in another hour."

Clint frowned at that and then looked at the girl in his hands. It had been alright to watch the girl, but he guessed that the mother wouldn't be happy when she found out that her little girl had basically been at a stranger's – not that Clint would ever do something to a child, but it was the principle. He didn't want to keep the girl with him and worry the mother when she found out that her girl hadn't been where she thought she was.

 _That was what mothers were worried about, wasn't it?_

Evan seemed to understand Clint's thought process, because he stepped back and opened his door.

"Come on in," he said. "I've got the number of Evelyn's work place so we can call her and tell her that Mercedes's here."

Clint nodded at that and then entered the flat with Evan. The other man pulled out a little notebook and started searching it for the number.

"Ah, here is it!"

Another minute later he was on the phone with Mrs. Simmons while Clint had sat down Mercedes and led her to the living room.

"Clint," Clint looked up at that and saw that Evan had entered the living room, phone in hand. "Mrs. Simmons is asking you if you would watch her until Ginny comes home."

Clint frowned at that.

"What about you?" he asked.

"I'm on my way to college, so no can do, sorry," Evan answered. So Clint gestured to the phone. When Evan gave it to him, he spoke instantly.

"Clinton Brandt here," he said, using the name he had given when asking for the flat. He had always preferred some forged records and unlike 'Clint Barton' a name not connected in any way to Hawkeye. "Mrs. Simmons, are you sure 'bout that?"

"Evan said you seemed to have taken good care of Mercedes until now and Ginny'll come home soon anyway. It wouldn't be long."

"I have absolutely no experience with children, Mrs. Simmons," he said.

"That's alright. Don't worry, like I said. It should only be half an hour to an hour at most."

Clint sighed at that.

"Alright," he gave it. "I'll look after her for now."

In that moment Mercedes tucked at his shirt.

"Is that Mommy?" she asked. "Can I talk to her, Doctor Clint?"

Clint blinked at the title and opened his mouth to object, but finally just said: "Your daughter wants to talk to you," before giving the child the phone.

Evan raised an eyebrow at that.

" _Doctor_ Clint?" he repeated surprised, when Mercedes started to talk about the awesomeness of 'Doctor Clint'.

Clint shrugged and settled on the truth – somewhat.

"Ah… don't have an actual claim to that title," he said. "I just don't know how to explain Mercy that she's not… entirely correct."

Evan blinked at that, but let it slide.

In the end, Clint took Mercedes back to his flat with a note to Ginny about Mercedes being at Clint's.

The girl, Clint soon found out, was quite a chatter-box. With her help, Clint cooked some tomato soup for dinner – what else was there to do with a child? He didn't have toys or a TV after all and he had to keep the girl busy somehow... and he definitely wouldn't let her play with his weapons! Even without a high school degree he knew that _that_ would be a stupid idea!

They were just setting the table when Ginny knocked. Mercedes pouted when she saw that it was Ginny.

"But we barely finished cooking just now, Ms. Ginny!" she objected. "I'm hungry!"

"Aw, Mercy!" Clint said smirking at the little girl and teasing her. "Seems like you won't taste our soup after all!"

The girl just pouted even more.

Ginny laughed and held out a hand.

"Hi," she said when Clint took if. "I'm Virginia Potts, but you may call me Ginny like everybody else does."

Clint smiled at her and took her hand.

"Clinton Brandt," he introduced himself. "Your new neighbour. Just call me Clint."

Ginny returned the smile and then looked first at a pouting Mercedes and then at a shy Benjamin.

"Would you mind if we eat dinner at your table?" She settled on, a questioning look on her face. "I would have to feed the children anyway and… well, you already cooked with Mercedes. We also at least have to have a taste of the horrible things you cooked, don't we?"

Her eyes twinkled at that last sentence, showing Clint clearly that she was teasing.

"We didn't cook anything horrible!" Mercedes objected still pouting. "Our soup is the best in the whole world!"

"Well," Ginny said. "Then we should definitely taste it, don't we?"

Mercedes nodded eagerly and Ginny turned to look at Clint, an eyebrow raised in a silent question.

For a moment, Clint wanted to refuse.

He was an assassin – he didn't have _guests_ in his flat!

Clint inwardly grimaced at the thought of _guests_!

Then his eyes met the puppy dog eyes of one Mercedes Simmons.

"Aw… eyes, no!" He thought desperately, but it was already too late. His mouth had wretched the control from his brain before Clint could stop it.

"Naw," his mouth said. "I don't mind. C'mon in!"

So, in the end, Ginny and the other sibling ended up eating dinner at Clint's.

Ginny was a friendly young woman who was a few years older than Clint with red hair and blue eyes. She was quite nice – but continued to tease Mercedes with thoughts about the 'horrible things' she would have to eat thanks to having dinner at Clint's while Clint set the living room table – the table in the kitchen too small for all four of them.

Then they sat down to eat.

After Ginny's first bite, her tone definitely changed and the teasing subdued – or changed directions, Clint wasn't too sure about that.

"Seems as if there are some men who can cook," she said while grinning at Clint. "This is surprisingly good."

"I told you it's the best soup in the whole world!" Mercedes pointed out smugly.

Clint just snorted amused.

"I simply take that as a compliment," he said to Ginny and she laughed but said nothing further to that discussion.

"You coming to barbequing next Sunday?" she asked instead, and for a moment Clint wanted to refuse. But then Mercedes had already answered for him.

"Of course Doctor Clint does!" she said. "It's barbequing with Mr. Grills. Nobody ever misses it!"

Ginny just raised an eyebrow at that, so Clint shrugged.

"It seems like I'm coming," he said, and Ginny snorted.

oOo

"Sir," Nick looked up from the paperwork he was reading to see Phil Coulson standing in his doorway.

"Cheese," he greeted.

"Barrique was taken down last night," Phil said.

Nick Fury nodded and held out a hand for the file he expected.

Phil sighed.

"We didn't do it," he said. "When we managed to get there, he was already down. A single arrow to the eye."

"Hawkeye," Nick concluded sighing and leaned back in his chair. "Since when does your insane assassin go after our targets?"

Phil shrugged at that.

"I have no idea, sir," he replied. "But at least this time around it wasn't 'Ronin'. It's always a mess when _that_ assassin is involved in a killing."

Nick Fury snorted.

"That might be because he prefers these really nice things called swords to any other weapon," he replied while rolling his eyes. "That damn assassin is as deadly with their swords as Hawkeye with their bow."

Nick waved it off.

"Anyway," he said. "You're telling me Hawkeye took one of our targets and put him down?"

"Yes, sir," Phil replied and Nick Fury frowned.

"That's a first. Normally it's Ronin who goes after our targets."

Phil shrugged at that casually.

"Normally," he reaffirmed.

"Was it coincidence or deliberately?" Nick Fury asked.

"Well," Phil thought aloud while putting down the file he was carrying. Nick Fury snatched it up and looked through the case. "It seemed like an accident that he took our target."

Phil frowned lightly.

"But then, it looked like an accident at the beginning of Ronin's interference as well," he added.

Nick raised an eyebrow.

"I thought it's still not proven that he's truly doing it deliberately," he said amused. Phil shook his head slightly.

"It isn't," he conceded. "But that doesn't change the fact that every man killed by Ronin in the last three years has at least been on SHIELD's radar, if not on our to-kill-list. So either Ronin has the same moral compass we have or he's teasing us with his kills."

At that Phil looked at Nick with soft puppy dog eyes.

Nick Fury's eyes widened.

"No, Cheese! No!" He exclaimed. "We're already trying to recruit one insane assassin – we won't try to do it with another!"

"But, sir!"

"No!" Nick Fury shook his head. "It's hard enough to see what the world has come to with two assassins doing the work of our organisation – I'm not willing to add any more insanity to SHIELD than I already have!"

"But –"

"That's my last word on that matter, Cheese!"

 _Luckily Nick Fury never found out that Hawkeye enjoyed switching his bow with his katanas sometime. If he had, maybe Nick Fury wouldn't have survived SHIELD's future recruit sane._

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 _That_ _'s_ _it_ _for_ _today_ _._ _Don't_ _worry_ _,_ _the_ _first_ _'superhero' is just around the corner now, maybe next chapter or the chapter after, I promise!_

' _Till_ _next_ _time_ _._

 _Ebenbild_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer**_ _: Sadly all Marvel's and not mine. If I had done the movies, Clint would have been the star from the start._

 _ **Placing:**_ _Before the movies._

 _ **Warning:**_ _I have no idea about the comic's, and just know some tit-bits from gossip and wikipedia, so this is mainly based on the first Avenger's movie._

 _Just an idea I had, nothing more._

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sSsSsSsSs

 _ **Chapter 3**_

 _ **FINDING**_ _ **A**_ _ **LITTLE BOW -**_

 _ **AND KEEPING IT**_

sSs

He was skipping along the roof, hiding in the shadows.

From afar, he watched the seemingly nice man kissing his children goodnight. Inwardly, he shuddered thinking that the man who was currently kissing his little children goodnight was about to go out to kidnap children in the same age range as his own. He would shut away these children, imprison them and force their parents to pay for their return before returning them. While he had them, he used them to experiment on them – quite often either killing them or traumatizing them beyond help.

In other words: The man was one of the worst people the assassin had ever targeted.

The assassin waited and watched the man to say goodnight to his children, then, when the man left, the assassin left his perch and slit down into an alley.

The man left his house, saying goodbye to his clueless wife and then walked down the street, waving his wife when she shut the door.

The assassin had watched the habits of the man for more than three weeks already, mostly by installing surveillance that had been removed again two days ago.

The man wasn't the assassin's only target. There were two others under the assassin's surveillance, but the man was the next job the assassin would fulfil, not caring that the ones who wanted the man dead weren't better than the man himself. The assassin might have morals, but that doesn't mean that he had enough morals to not take money or jobs from people who weren't better than his targets. The assassin might have morals – but he didn't expect his clients to have any.

Maybe the morals of the assassin were a little twisted as well…

In that moment, the man passed the alleyway the assassin had hidden away in.

The assassin stepped out of the alleyway behind the man.

"Good day to you, Mr. Oakland," the assassin said and the man turned, his eyes widened in surprise when he saw the masked face of the assassin. He grabbed for his hidden weapon, but the assassin in yellow and black was faster.

Something silver gleamed in the street lights, then the man let go of his hidden weapon to grab his bloody collar. Surprised eyes looked at the assassin before glassing over. Then the man's legs gave in and he fell to the ground.

The assassin watched without remorse.

Then he cleaned his sword with a piece of cloth, enlightened the cloth with fire and let it fall down next to his victim.

"Because it will be your last," the assassin murmured. Then he turned away and walked back into the darkness he had come from.

When the man would be found, it wouldn't take long to find out who had killed him and what he had been doing every night he went away to 'work'.

SHIELD's suspect list only helped in this case – they had been monitoring the man for more than a year, suspecting his doings but unable to find the evidence the assassin had found.

"Don't tell me," Nick Fury said when Phil Coulson entered into his office. "I already heard in the news that Oakland is dead."

"That he is, sir," Phil said.

"Who was it?" Nick asked sighing.

Phil just raised an eyebrow.

"Do you really have to ask, sir?" He asked interested.

Nick Fury sighed at that again.

"Ronin," he said and Phil inclined his head.

"Ronin," he affirmed.

"So Hawkeye's hit on one of our targets was an accident?" Nick Fury asked.

"I can't tell you, sir," Phil replied. "We don't even know if Ronin's hits aren't coincidence as well."

Nick Fury looked at him darkly.

"Three years – and every hit is one of our targets," he said pointedly. "That can't be coincidence."

Phil's face gave nothing away.

"Maybe…"

"No!" Nick Fury interrupted him icily. "We're already recruiting Hawkeye. Two assassins like that is one too many in my organisation!"

"But –"

"No, Cheese! Go home to your damn barbeque and stop bothering me!"

Phil looked at him stoically.

"You and I know that my neighbours don't like me too much," Phil said coolly. "I don't think they'll miss me if I don't come, Marcus."

Nick just stared at him.

"I'm your boss, Cheese," he said deadpan. "You do as I say."

Phil raised a mocking eyebrow at him.

"Meaning go to your barbeque and forget about recruiting Ronin?" He asked his boss poker-faced.

Nick nodded slowly.

"Exactly," he said dryly. "There're already enough insane people working for me – I don't have to try and find two more when one is more than enough! Truly! An assassin with swords! Swords! That alone speaks of high costs just for the psychologist before we can even get a benefit from recruiting him!"

Phil sighed, but Nick wouldn't give in in this case.

Swords would forever be a sore matter for Nick Fury, especially because he never could be persuaded to bring in Ronin.

oOo

The night before the barbeque, Clint was on his way home from his latest work, when he heard a soft mewing in one of the darker alleys. Clint knew that he should ignore it. He knew his percentage for finding strays – those now obviously including neighbour's children – but then there was another soft mewing, soft in Clint's hearing aids at least.

"Aw, no, cat!" Clint complained unhappily. "No cat, please!"

The answer was another mewing.

Obviously, the mewing wouldn't go away any time soon.

"Go on, go home," Clint told himself. "Ignore it, c'mon, Barton! Just ignore it!"

Sadly enough, Clint knew that it was a pointless encouragement on his part. He already had lost the fight the moment he registered the mewing.

It mewed again and Clint sighed inwardly and gave in.

He entered the alley and there, in a trash can, he found the cat he had been hearing. It was still a kitten and obviously – what else? – hurt.

"Aw, cat," he complained. "Couldn't you have been just stuck somewhere?"

But, of course it was a pointless wish.

The kitten looked like it had been in a fight with either another cat or a dog and one of its ears was half missing, one of its pawns bleeding and its fur was mussed.

Clint sighed inwardly again and then picked it up.

He couldn't let it stay here. It would die within days.

"You're an idiot, Barton! Here you are, back at taking home strays," Clint grumbled and made his way home to patch up his new patient.

The next morning someone knocked on his door and Clint solely 'heard' it – in truth, he felt it – because of the soft vibrations travelling through his flat. He groaned and sat up, before grabbing his hearing aids, shoving them in and turning them on.

Now he could hear the knocking as well.

"I'm coming!" he called out and then searched for a shirt to put on. He was wearing sleeping pants and he decided that they would do for now. A minute later he was at the door, opening it.

It was Mercedes who was standing in front of it.

"Doctor Clint!" she greeted him grinning, her mother and sibling behind her. "Are you coming? We're all going to the barbeque now!"

Clint groaned and looked back into his apartment to look at the clock on his wall. It was ten o'clock in the morning. He had come home at six o'clock in the morning and had then treated the cat until half past eight. He had barely slept for two hours.

But when he looked back at the child's bright green eyes, he gave in anyway.

"I come after you in another half an hour. I'm not ready yet, Mercy," he said. The child just nodded at that gravely.

"Can I stay with you until you go?" she asked innocently. "Please!" And Clint couldn't fathom how that little girl had taken a shine to him after their one evening together. Since that day he had a constant visitor, and every time he had been out for some days in a row, he found her in front of his door soon after he had returned, pouting and demanding to come in. Clint had long since given up trying to keep her away. He had locked his weapons in his bedroom and forbidden her to enter there and then let her roam the rest of his flat.

"Mercedes," her mother said at that moment. "I'm sure that Clint still needs some time for himself. Come on, you can see him later. He promised to come up to the barbeque, after all."

"But, Mommy!"

And Evelyn looked at Clint with a raised eyebrow.

Clint just sighed and opened his door wider.

"Just don't wake the cat, Mercy," he said. "And don't you dare to enter my bedroom while I take a shower!"

The girl rejoiced and ran into his flat.

"I'm sorry, Clint," Evelyn said. "I'll talk to her." But Clint winked it off.

"She doesn't truly bother me," he said. "As long as she respects the boundaries, she's welcome." Nevertheless he locked his bedroom door before entering his bathroom. He definitely didn't want to have a little girl anywhere even near his weapons.

Mercedes meanwhile had sat down next to Clint's newest stray – the cat he found last night.

"What's your cat called, Doctor Clint?" Mercedes asked him through the door to the bathroom.

"It doesn't have a name," Clint answered. "You can think about one while I shower, alright? I won't hear you for a while so behave!" And with that he took out his hearing aids again and stepped into the shower.

When he stepped out of the bathroom ten minutes later, Mercedes was still sitting next to the cat, stroking the sleeping and bandaged animal.

"Is it ill?" she asked him the moment he entered the room.

"Yes," he answered. "I'm currently making it better." And Mercedes nodded gravely.

"You're good at making someone better, Doctor Clint," she said, then crooked her head. "I've decided on a name."

"You have?" Clint asked, not quite sure if he truly wanted the animal named. If the cat was named, then it was owned. Until now Clint had never taken in a stray indefinitely.

Mercedes nodded gravely again.

"I'm calling it Bowe," she said and Clint's eyebrows rose.

"Why Bow?" he asked.

"B-O-W-E. Bowe," Mercedes corrected him, but Clint couldn't hear a different in her pronunciation except of a difference in her spelling. Maybe it was a difference his hearing aids didn't pick up on? He mused amused, but repeated his question anyway.

"Alright," he said. "Why Bowe?"

"Because I like it," she said. "And because you painted an archer on my bandage back then, so you like archery, so I think that Bowe fits."

And Clint's eyes sparkle in amusement at that exclamation.

"So she's named Bowe," he said, then gestured the child to come with him. "Well, we're going to the barbeque now. I'm sure that Bowe appreciates to be able to sleep alone a little bit. She still has to heal a lot."

The girl nodded and then followed him out of his door and Clint suddenly knew that there would be no way to get rid of Bowe anymore. Mercedes would never forgive him if he did. So he sighed and decided to buy some things for a cat tomorrow. At least he had a flat where pets were allowed. Thanks to Clint's affinity to find strays everywhere he went, he had looked from the beginning for a flat where he could have animals in his rooms – not that he had not hoped not to have to use that allowance.

So, in the end, he went to Grills the moment they were on the roof to tell him about Bowe.

"I found her last night," he explained. "I will take her to the vet tomorrow before she comes to stay with me indefinitely." Grills, the old landlord, just nodded.

The barbeque also was the first time that Clint truly interacted with all of his neighbours. The elderly lady from 22E, Mrs. Brown was quite nice with a biting humour and a soft side for Evelyn and her children. Evan and 'his' girls – the girls he shared the flat with – were also there. Ginny, Clint had met before, Clara instead was an unknown. Clara was a nursery student and it definitely showed in her soft and warm behaviour.

The banker guy of 22D was also there. But he had secluded himself and watched their interactions with a poker-face from the side-lines.

"Don't worry about him," Evan said when he saw Clint's eyes travelling to the man in his suit in the corner. "He's always like that – if he comes at all, that is."

Clint raised an eyebrow at the other man in inquiry and Evan shrugged.

"Like I said: He's quite stuck up. Always somewhere else, always basically ignoring us when we try to talk to him, always talking on the phone and well," he nodded towards the corner where the other man had secluded himself into. "You see it. He's not really social with us even if he comes by like today."

Clint looked back at the other man in the corner and then shrugged.

"I guess," he said slowly.

Evan snorted.

"Don't guess," he said. "That man is stuck up – and we all know it!"

"Oh, c'mon, Evan," Ginny said with an amused eye-roll. "He isn't that bad. He's quite nice when he has time to talk…"

"That's what you say!" Evan protested. "But you're the exception to the rule when it comes to him interacting with us!"

Ginny rolled her eyes amused and while they started to argue about their views on the other man, Clint slipped away to the man in the corner.

Said man raised a single eyebrow at him, so Clint smiled at him winningly.

"Hi!" He said and held out his hand. "I'm Clint – your new neighbour from 22C!"

The other man just looked at him without emotion.

"Phil Coulson," he offered while looking Clint over with sharp eyes.

"Aw," Clint thought. "A bit shy, that man."

He widened his grin a bit more.

"Nice to meet you!" He said while pulling back his hand which hadn't been accepted by the other man.

The other man just raised an eyebrow at him.

"Likewise," he said and Clint wondered what the other man in his pristine suit was thinking when looking at Clint's washed-out t-shirt and worn jeans.

Clint decided not to care.

"I heard that you're not often here at the monthly barbeques," he said, still smiling.

"I'm not," Coulson replied before his eyes wandered over the other occupants. "It's not very interesting, here – and I often have to work even on Sundays."

Clint nodded, understandingly.

"Oh," he said. "I know that. I've worked on weekends before." – like this weekend, but he definitely wouldn't tell the other man something like that when it wasn't necessary.

"So why're you here today?" Clint asked interested. "Free weekend?"

The other man just sighed.

"Annoyed boss," he answered, but before Clint could ask about it further, Mercedes came bouncing towards him and grabbed his hand.

"Doctor Clint!" She exclaimed. "You have to come with me! Grills is done with his sausages! You _have_ to test them! C'mon! C'mon!"

Clint smiled indulgingly at the little girl.

The other man just raised an eyebrow at him in inquiry of Clint's decision.

Clint rolled his eyes at the other man amused.

"If you excuse me," he said amused. "I'll have to go and eat some sausages."

With that he followed Mercy towards the landlord to get some sausages, leaving the other man behind in his corner.

"Guess I have to break the ice a bit later," he thought amused. "But don't worry, Phil Coulson – one day I will break the ice!"

With that he turned back to Mercy and concentrated on her and her jabbering.

All in all, it was still a relaxing lunch and they stayed together way into the night. It was the first of many barbeques on the rooftop that Clint would attend. He wouldn't have time for all, but he would attend every one he could.

It was also the first time he truly interacted with all his neighbours. After that evening he sometimes helped Mrs. Brown with her groceries because the elderly lady had some trouble with her hip. He would also officially take up the mantle of a sometimes-babysitter of Evelyn's children and an official movie-partner for movie-nights at Evan's together with Evan's girls.

And like that, Clint integrated himself into the neighbourhood.

oOo

"How was your barbeque, Cheese?"

Phil looked at Nick darkly.

"How should it have been?" Phil asked unhappily. "I was stuck with civilians on a roof-top with nobody to talk to!"

Nick looked at his 'Good Eye' pointedly.

"Stop being that antisocial, Cheese," he said with a roll of his eye. "I bet you were just standing there. If you'd just –"

"You and I know that I hate barbequing in any way or form!"

"So? That doesn't mean that you can't attend it once in a while!"

Phil groaned.

"You just love to torture me, don't you, Marcus!"

"Exactly," his boss said. "And now back to work with you!"

Obviously, Phil was still affected by his attending of the barbeque if he wasn't even able to have the last word when it came to his old friend after attending it the day before…

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 _That_ _'s_ _it_ _for_ _today_ _._

' _Till_ _next_ _time_ _._

 _Ebenbild_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Disclaimer**_ _: Sadly all Marvel's and not mine. If I had done the movies, Clint would have been the star from the start._

 _ **Placing:**_ _Before the movies._

 _ **Warning:**_ _I have no idea about the comic's, and just know some tit-bits from gossip and wikipedia, so this is mainly based on the first Avenger's movie._

 _Just an idea I had, nothing more._

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sSsSsSsSs

 _ **STRAYS DON'T HAVE HOMES –**_

 _ **SO THEY CRASH WHEREVER THEY WANT**_

sSs

Clint's window was shattered at half past two in the morning, just three and a half months after the first barbeque. It was the heat and the vibrations of something hitting his wall that woke him.

When Clint sat up in his bed, he had automatically drawn one of his knives, but what he found definitely didn't require a knife.

On the floor of Clint's bedroom, in front of the wall, laid the unconsciousness form of a man in blue, tight sitting clothing. In Clint's eyes, it looked like a romper. Clint blinked, but the scene didn't change. There was still an unconsciousness man in a romper on his floor.

"Bleeding on my floor," Clint corrected himself when he saw the blood soaking his carpet. Obviously, the man wasn't a threat – at least not in that very moment.

Clint sighed and then stood up to go over to the man and crouch down next to him.

"Aw, no! You're not a stray," Clint murmured. "So what the hell are you doing here?"

The unconsciousness man didn't answer and Clint finally hesitatingly touched the man. The man's skin was hotter than normal, but when Clint turned him, he forgot about that abnormality when he saw the raw looking flesh wound in the man's side.

"I wonder how that happened," Clint mused, but finally stood up and went to his kitchen to retrieve his healing supplies. He might not be able to get an answer right now, but he knew that the man would wake up some time in the future.

So he brought some water and a wash cloth as well as his healing supplies into his bedroom to the man. There he opened the romper that the man was wearing and then removed it.

Without the romper, the wound looked worse.

"Oh well," Clint murmured sighing. "Looks like some stitches need to be applied as well."

Clint definitely had stitched himself and some of his furry charges often enough, so doing it to another person shouldn't be too different. He just hoped that the man wouldn't wake until Clint had treated him or there might be a lot more problems.

Sadly, Clint's luck wasn't interested to stay around and the man woke when Clint started to clean and disinfect the wound.

Immediately after waking, the man grabbed Clint and threw him across the room. Clint collided with the wall.

"Ouch," he groaned when he slit down the wall. The man meanwhile had stood up, his hands, to Clint's surprise, now holding flames.

Clint decided that it might be prudent to raise his arms and not even try to draw his knives.

"Aw, man, come on! I wasn't planning on harming you," he said without hearing his voice. It was then that he remembered his hearing aids were still on his bedside table.

The man meanwhile stared at him, clearly unsure what to think about Clint, so Clint decided to explain more even if he might be slurring thanks to his missing hearing aids.

"You fell through my window," he said slowly. "You're hurt and the only thing I wanted to do was to take a look at your wounds and maybe help you with them. I definitely have no interest in fighting a human flame-generator."

At that, Clint could see the man in front of him snorting.

Thankfully, Clint had lit the light in the room before looking at the man's wounds, so when the man spoke, Clint could at least read his lips.

"Human Torch, man. Not flame-generator! Please! What a code-name would that be!" the man said.

"I wasn't stating any code-names," Clint answered while slowly standing up from the floor. "I was simply naming your… ability."

At that, the man looked around the room, before turning back to Clint.

"I crashed into your bedroom?" he asked. Clint just raised an eyebrow at that.

"I definitely don't have the habit of dragging unconscious strangers into my bedroom and throwing in my windows," he countered. "So if you don't want to accuse me of doing exactly that then yes, the only other explanation is that you crashed into my bedroom."

The other man laughed at that.

"Sorry, man," he said. "Definitely didn't mean to do that –"

Clint just waved it of.

"You want me to take a look at your wound or do you want to –" Clint gestured back to the window. The man blinked at that and then lowered his gaze to look at his side before hissing.

"Ouch," Clint actually didn't truly hear or lip-read that one, but he could guess what the man was mumbling. Then the man looked up again. "How the hell did I miss _that_?"

"Adrenalin," Clint answered instantly. "It's not unusual, don't worry."

The man rolled his eyes at that.

"Thanks, doc, for _that_ explanation," he said. Clint just shrugged.

"Do you want me to take a look at the wound or not?" he asked, ignoring the 'doc' as sarcasm.

The man blinked at that, but in the end, he nodded.

"If you don't mind," he said. "Hurts like a bitch now that I think."

"Maybe you should stop thinking then," Clint said grinning before nearing the man again. Maybe he should have put in his hearing aids first, but if he didn't have to, he wouldn't. He had been wearing them quite a lot lately and his ears were tired.

He gestured for the stranger to lie down on the floor again, and then returned to washing out the wound, one eye always on the mouth of the other man in case he said something.

The man just groaned and complained – something that Clint could live with, especially because he didn't have to hear the complains.

"I need to stitch it," he finally said. "It's too deep to heal just like that."

The man snorted at that and Clint returned his gaze to the man's lips.

"I'm a human torch, if you don't have some yarn that doesn't burn, I think that the stitches won't stay long," he said.

Clint just raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"So you're telling me that you can't stop yourself from heating up?"

"Of course I can!" the man exclaimed. "But if I want to come home tonight I will have to fly – and for that I have to heat up!"

Clint shrugged.

"You can stay on my couch for tonight and I can drive you home tomorrow morning," he offered. It wouldn't be a good night for Clint if the man stayed, but Clint also knew how to sleep with basically one eye open, so he would be fine – as long as the man didn't start a fire with his abilities.

"My sister would be quite concerned if I simply stayed away," the man said. "Especially after the fight we fought tonight. I should have long since reached home, instead I crash-landed in your bedroom."

Clint just raised an eyebrow at that.

"I have a phone," he said dryly. "Phoning your sister should be no problem."

The man blinked at that, then he laughed.

"Never thought of that," he exclaimed before gesturing to his wound. "Alright, doc, do your worst."

"I don't think you want that," Clint said dryly, thinking about the fact that doing his worst normally meant killing another person. But he said nothing further to that. Instead he locally anaesthetized the wound – he had stolen the anaesthetic from a hospital for his own uses – before starting to stitch, all the while ignoring the interested looks his work received from his patient.

When Clint looked up after he finished, he found out that the man had started talking.

"- know what you are doing," Clint caught the man saying. Clint decided to ignore it in favour to bandaging the wound expertly.

"From now on no human torch for at least a week, better two," Clint said, looking up from his work, back into the other man's face. Said man nodded.

"Thanks, man," he said. "You're great. I didn't even feel a thing."

Clint just shrugged. He had long since learned to work with the human body, normally he used his knowledge to kill people, but healing them was another way to use it – that way was just normally only reserved for himself.

"Keep it clean and dry," he advised the man instead. "It should be healed in about two weeks. Nothing strenuous, some rest for the rest of the week and you should be fine. It will scar, but it shouldn't be too obvious in the end." Definitely not as obvious as a lot of Clint's own scars. But, well, Clint had not always been as good as he was now in treating wounds…

The other man nodded and then proceeded to stand up with Clint's help. Clint took his healing supplies and then guided the man to his couch, where he helped him to sit down. The man looked a little bit uncomfortable at that.

"Er… you don't have some clothes for tonight that I could borrow, do you?" he finally asked.

Clint looked him over, before replying.

"No rompers," he said. "But I can give you some sleeping pants and maybe a t-shirt."

The man laughed at that.

"Thanks," he said. "That will do."

So Clint returned to his bedroom and pulled out some of his own clothes and an old duvet that he normally used for his strays – did a Human Torch count as one of those? – before returning to his living room, offering them to the man.

"Don't you dare to set them aflame," he warned. "If you do, I can't promise your continued survival."

The man just laughed at that, not taking Clint seriously. Clint guessed that it was because Clint's acts of kindness before but he also guessed that it was also in part his not quite impressive stature that gave him a harmless air – just because he had been an unusual tall child didn't mean he was an unusual tall adult; instead he had stopped growing quite early and now barely reached what others would call 'average'. Wearing one of his bigger t-shirts, Clint's muscles also didn't look very impressive, instead he looked a lot more harmless than he ever could be. Clint didn't mind that. He had often used it to his advantage. Not that Clint would kill the man if his clothes would be set aflame. The man would have to do something more serious to set off Clint.

"Don't worry," the man promised. "I won't."

And Clint nodded at that and then handed the man his phone so that the man could phone his sister. "Just put it on the table when you're done," he said and then wanted to turn back towards his bedroom to return to sleep when, in the last moment, he saw the man saying something.

"Huh?" he asked, turning back to the man.

The man must have said something like 'wait' because he continued without an odd glance at Clint.

"What's your name? You never told me."

"You never told me yours as well," Clint pointed out, not too interested in the other man's name. He got the answer anyway.

"I'm Johnny. Johnny Storm," the man said. For a moment, Clint hesitated, but then he answered anyway.

"Clint," he guessed that giving his first name wouldn't hurt too much. There was after all no way to connect the assassin 'Hawkeye' with either 'Clint Barton' or 'Clinton Brandt' – especially not the last one – without a lot of research and guessing or filling in the blanks. Adding to that the fact that there had to be a lot of 'Clints' living in a city like New York and Clint guessed that he was as safe as he could be considering that the man knew where he lived.

The man didn't seem to mind the missing last name. He just nodded.

"Good night," Clint finally settled on, and then left, not sure if the man – Johnny, he reminded himself – had said 'good night' as well. Clint entered his bedroom again, locking it from the inside after entering. Clint might have offered the man to stay over night, but he would be damned to sleep with an open door when a stranger was in his living room.

Johnny behaved for the night.

When Clint entered his living room the next morning, the Human Torch was still sleeping soundlessly on his couch. In the end, Clint decided to make some breakfast.

It was the smell of coffee that woke the other man.

He sat up and then looked around confused before remembrance could be seen in his eyes.

"Good morning," Clint greeted the man and then gestured to the table. "If you want some, I have breakfast."

"Yeah, thanks," Johnny answered before standing up and coming over. After breakfast, Clint took another look at the other man's wound before bandaging it again and then gesturing the man to follow him.

"I take you home," Clint said. "You can keep the clothes." He had lent Johnny one of his jeans and the other man was still wearing the shirt from last night. Clint guessed that it was better than walking around in a romper in open daylight. Since Clint didn't plan on seeing the man ever again, he guessed that he would have to say good bye to his clothes, but it was still better than to be seen with a man in a romper.

"Er… thanks," Johnny answered.

When the man guided him to the headquarters of the Fantastic Four, Clint finally understood the romper. Clint, of course, had heard about the Fantastic Four, but since he had never been too interested, he had disregarded the hype. He had far too much to do to follow the news of some accident in space.

"Thanks for driving me, Clint," Johnny said, before leaving Clint's car and Clint hoped that it would be the last time to see the other man. Clint definitely had enough to do without trying to add superheroes to his list.

Unfortunately, Johnny seemed to think something different.

Not even a month later, Clint was woken in the middle of the night by the vibrations of a knock against his window. He blinked and sat up to look out. In front of his window, on the fire escape, stood Johnny. He was supporting a woman who was obviously hurt. Her leg was bleeding.

Clint rubbed his eyes, but the scene didn't change.

In the end he grabbed his hearing aids, shoved them into his ears, turned them on and then stood up and opened his newly repaired window.

"Hey, doc," Johnny greeted him. "Sorry for waking you but my sister is hurt. Would you mind looking her over?"

And with that the Human Torch helped his sister into Clint's bedroom without even waiting for an answer.

Clint blinked, then he groaned.

"You know that New York has hospitals, don't you?" he asked rhetorically.

"'Course," Johnny answered. "But if we turned up in one, they would more then likely just gawk at us instead of helping. You, instead, I know for sure, won't."

And Clint couldn't argue with that.

"Bring her into the living room," he said and then went to get his healing supplies. "How's your wound?"

"All healed up," Johnny answered. "Sorry for not bringing your clothes by until now. I will do so as soon as possible."

"I told you that you can keep them," Clint replied while returning to the living room. He had a shirt with him and gave it to Johnny. "She has to wear that. I can't work as long as she's still wearing that romper and I don't think that she would be happy being naked in front of me."

Johnny just nodded and helped his sister change while Clint fetched a bowl of water from the kitchen.

In the end, he treated her and then sent them on their way. A week and a half later, they were back, this time in the company of the rest of their team.

Clint treated those that were injured and let them stay for the night. He drove them home the next morning.

A month later, Susan, Johnny's sister, and her husband were back again. It was then that Clint started to guess that he would never get rid of them ever again. He was proven correctly, when two and a half months later, Johnny woke him in the middle of the night because the team was hurt.

"When did I ever ask for the job as the doctor of the Fantastic Four?" Clint asked rhetorically while treating them. "I can't remember to be offered that job and accepting."

Johnny grinned at that.

"You accepted the moment you healed me the first night," he answered smirking. "If you had sent me on my way bleeding I would have never come back."

And Clint guessed that the man was right. Sadly, there was no way to turn back time.

And like that Clint became the unofficial doctor of the Fantastic Four – if he wanted it, or not.

oOo

"Sir," Phil Coulson stopped at the entrance to the office.

Nick Fury looked up from his paperwork.

"Why are you here this time around, Cheese?" He asked.

The answer was a slightly confused look.

"I'm not entirely sure, sir," Phil replied frowning.

Nick Fury raised an eyebrow at that.

"How can you be unsure why you're here?" He asked a little bit confused.

"Well, I know why I am here, sir," Phil replied frowning. "I just don't understand the report I'm going to give you."

Nick Fury frowned.

"What report?" He asked.

"Well, you had us watching the Fantastic Four," Phil answered, frowning down at the folder in his hands. "They are doing well – but there's something… odd… going on with them."

Nick Fury frowned.

"Something odd?" He repeated concerned.

"Well, it seems that they have a second meeting place somewhere near Hell's Kitchen, suddenly," Phil replied a little bit confused. "We can't find out why they decided to open a second meeting place there…"

"Well," Nick Fury replied, thinking. "It's quite far from their home, so maybe they decided to have another place somewhere else in the city. It would be logical since their home is too far away for them to always return there immediately."

Phil frowned again, but in the end he nodded.

"That… might be," he said hesitatingly. "I will keep an eye on that nevertheless."

It would take some time until Phil connected the Fantastic Four's new behaviour with one Clint Barton, unwilling doctor of the Fantastic Four.

xXxXxXxXxXxClintxXxXxXxStraysxXxXxXxXxStraysxXxXxXxXxClintxXxXxXxXxXxXx

 _That_ _'s_ _it_ _for_ _today_ _._ _Since_ _I_ _couldn't_ _get_ _rid_ _of_ _the_ _story_ _,_ _I_ _decided_ _to_ _write_ _it_ _down_ _._

' _Till_ _next_ _time_ _._

 _Ebenbild_


End file.
